


The Yellow Farce

by joudama



Series: An Apple A Day Keeps the Limping Doctor Away [2]
Category: A Study in Emerald - Neil Gaiman, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cthulhu Mythos, Gen, elder gods, eldritch horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:11:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joudama/pseuds/joudama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sentiment may not be what Sherlock needs to do his work, but it is what the Limping Doctor needs for his.</p><p>And that is all fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> I made the mistake of reading some ASiE fic right before going to bed, and then woke up with a very insistent part of me quite instantly telling me about ASiE!Sherlock telling John to get apples and WRITE IT DAMN YOU. So I did. And I'll admit up front, I don't know much about Lovecraft, other than the bits and pieces I've picked up from and gleaned off of pop culture. ^^;;  Not Britpicked (or should that be Albion-picked? heh), so any glaring Americanisms are all on me.
> 
> I'll also admit upfront writing will be slow; I am having massive computer issues (this was done and posted on my iPad, which is a pain, and also why nothing has been updated in forever) and they want me to take a Chinese proficiency test for work (come to Japan, have to learn Chinese. WTF), so my evenings not spent doing overtime are now spent with my nose in a Chinese textbook. My writing time was already fairly curtailed, and now, ahahahahooooooooo *sob*. Yeah. So between needing HSK 3 (Hanyu Shuiping Kaoshi; "Chinese Proficiency Test") this year, needing to buckle down and finally pass JLPT N1 (Japanese Language Proficiency Test), and wanting to take the TOPIK (Test Of Proficiency In Korean) at some point as well, I'm pretty boned for free time. Add health issues into the mix, and uuuuugh.
> 
> Things will be better writing-wise once I have my computer at home working, I promise. ^^;;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He only limps on a hunt.

_He only limps when he is on a hunt._

_It's something to do with proximity to the Royalty, he knows. Maybe it_ is _psychosomatic, like Sherlock insists, but..._

_It had been worse; had been all the time - a cold, icy burning from the remembrance of the things in the depths of an Afghani hell that had touched him, but now, it's only when he is near one of them and only until they are dead._

_The good thing about it, though, as Sherlock had pointed out, is that it is very good for keeping both the Met and Moriarty off their trail. The Met, Sherlock often sneered, are idiots who miss everything, but Moriarty is clever. (And oh, how John_ hates _the way Sherlock's eyes light up,_ always _light up, when he says that.) Moriarty had not missed the signs of John's limp and he had told the Yarders...which meant John, walking normally every other time but for when Royalty is in his sights, never draws suspicion upon himself._

_It is, Sherlock has told him, the best possible disguise. John could be walking around a crime scene of his own making, scalpels and knives still tucked in their leather holder against the small of his back, and the Met would completely disregard him because they were looking for someone with a pronounced limp._

_John finds it fitting, so terribly, horribly fitting, that his leg burns with cold fire, with madness under his skin, when he is near Royalty, and that taking them apart slice by slice returns warmth and sanity and painlessness to his limb. They were the ones to do this do him; their blood undoes it.  It is a fitting revenge._

_The war has broken him, he knows, the war and Royalty, and it is Sherlock Holmes, with his own source of his hatred for_ them _, who has given him a way to repair and heal himself, slice by slice and cut by cut._

_The day his leg no longer throbs when he is near Royalty will be the day he stops._

_He suspects Sherlock knows this...and that that is why he still limps in_ their _presence, why Sherlock may sneer that it is only psychosomatic but never actually_ pushes _; never forces like he did to get rid of John's limp whenever Royalty is not around._

 _In his broken way, John loves him, just a little, for that. For leaving him enough for his revenge - and only that - because for now, walking down the quiet street to their Montague Street digs, he is not limping. There is no cold, maddening paradoxical flame searing his flesh from the inside.  Only the tremor of his hand - another way his broken mind and body protect them, for who would think a man with a trembling hand could cut so sure a stroke, could fire a gun with such dead aim? - and betrayed shoulder from the guns of the Afghani rebels remains, and that, he thinks, is the work of_ Man _, of men fighting for their freedom under a sky still tinged with veins of blue, and it is_ fine _._

 __That _is all_ fine _._


	2. We're Out of Apples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John could see the battlefield of London even without Sherlock, even if he hadn't been able to join the fight.

"John,' Sherlock said, not looking up from his cell phone and his voice normal, but also something _enough_ to get John's attention.

"Yeah?"

"We're out of apples. If you're going shopping, get some," Sherlock said, and a muscle briefly tightened in John's cheek and he nodded sharply, the faint tremor that had been making his hand shake stopping before he had even noticed it had begun.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away - they either had a chance at a mark or they were in danger. They used code, even at home, because they both knew there was always a chance of _someone_ watching. And listening.

More than chance, really - closer to certainty.

"How many apples did you want me to pick up?"

"Oh, just two or three," Sherlock said lazily, not looking up from his computer, and John nodded.

"All right. I'll grab my wallet and go now, then. Pretty sure we're out of bread anyway," he said, and headed upstairs. He stuck is wallet into his front pocket, but tucked his soft leather case of tools - delicate but deadly knives and scalpels - against the small of his back, under his jumper.

Two or three apples.  That meant for him to leave the flat for a few hours. Not a bag, which would mean packing up and slipping out in the night and never coming back because their lives were at risk.  Most likely he was being sent out now because a prospective client was coming - until Sherlock checked them over, they did this separately, to ensure that if by some chance it was a set-up, only one of them could be caught. Sherlock's hands were the cleanest in this, and he the least likely to give anything away.

John's tools went with him so they would not be in the flat. Just in case.

John was glad they wouldn't have to leave just yet - he rather liked this place, for all it was something of a hole and this rookery was a part of town very far from what he would have expected he'd end up in back in med school or the army.  But...it was small, and cluttered and a great sight better than what he'd had before Sherlock, and some of the other places they'd had to live since partnering together in the Resistance. Perhaps this set up wasn't nearly so good as the theatre had been, but he got to help people under the table here, paid for his doctoring with money or whatever could be afforded secretly, and Sherlock could easily get to stations to busk and pickpocket when cash ran low, and it was...it felt like...

He knew he shouldn't get attached, but he'd found he couldn't help it.

He'd also found the same held true for more that just the flat.

\--

When John got back from Tesco, Sherlock was waiting with his coat on.  "Took you long enough," he said, looking annoyed.  John ignored him and went to the kitchen to put the groceries away.  Aside from a few apples, he'd mostly picked up some non-perishables, since he figured they'd be going somewhere soon, and the shopping had been for show more than anything.

John knew better than to ask Sherlock about his relationship with his brother and how deep the rabbit hole with them went. He didn't even know, for certain, if Mycroft Holmes was on their side or not. He did know that Mycroft was ubiquitous; was both part of the government and outside of it, and could be either their greatest foe or greatest ally.

Sometimes, he wondered if Mycroft was both.

But he never asked. He simply lived assuming both that Mycroft knew where they were and was watching, and precautions had to be taken at all times. So Sherlock spoke in code in case Mycroft was a foe, and John did what needed to be done for plausible deniability in case Mycroft was an ally.  Sherlock talked of apples; John went out and made sure to be seen buying them.

"...Did you sneak in a cigarette while I was gone, you tosser?" John said, stopping suddenly and taking a whiff. Someone had definitely been smoking in the flat, and it would explain Sherlock's current agitation. "And eat," he said, tossing one of the two apples he'd bought at Sherlock. "You know how fast they go bad," he said pointedly. Sherlock made a face, but bit into it, impatiently watching John methodically put the groceries away.

That was one good thing about their little code, John thought. It meant Sherlock had to actually eat something most of the times they used it.

"No, I did _not_ , and hurry up," Sherlock said impatiently, his fingers twitching. Something had Sherlock's attention, so much that the man was all but thrumming with energy, so much it was almost crackling under his skin. Sherlock let out another impatient sound, and threw himself into his chair, then drummed his fingers against the armrest, the bitten-into apple all but forgotten in his other hand.

When he was done putting the groceries away (just slow enough that Sherlock ate the apple out of impatience and likely needing something to have in his mouth so he didn't go tearing off for a fag), Sherlock jumped to his feet, grabbed his violin case, and gestured for John to follow him as he headed out the door.

He had no idea where they were going or what they'd be doing, but his leg gave a smallest flare of aching cold when he stepped over the threshold and headed down the stairs.

\--

It was a fairly sunny day; as sunny as London got in the late spring, with grey clouds misting the yellowed sky. From time to time, the sun, dark amber shot through with clots of red, peeped through the hazy clouds.

The sky had been so different in Afghanistan. The sun had beat down unmercifully, and blue streaks like veins had run through the jaundiced sky.

John had read books, as a child, that said the sky had once been blue, before the Royals came. He hadn't believed it, not until he had gone to Afghanistan, where traces of a diseased blue sky still could be seen.

He wondered about the rest, how true the stories had been, describing a blue sky and a yellow sun, and a moon that shone silver, not green. And the stars...

He wondered if it would be beautiful, as the Afghan sky had been at sunset, when the blue veins in the sky richened and the sun changed from clotted amber to bloodied red.

He wondered what it would be like to look up and see a sky full of white stars instead of drops of glistening red.

His leg almost gave out from under him, and he pulled his thoughts back to where he was, to keeping up with Sherlock. Sherlock was walking quickly, clearly chomping at the bit to talk, but there were too many people here, too many ears on the street, and it wasn't _safe_.

Sherlock kept his quick pace towards the nearest park, where they would be able to talk. The park was safe - they could keep an eye out easily, and there wouldn't be any bugs. And as cover, since there was CCTV, Sherlock would busk for money whenever anyone drew near, playing his violin until the potential threats had passed.

They had both gotten very good at figuring Moriarty's men. And the Met's. And they had a pattern; it wasn't unusual for them to be out in the park, Sherlock playing for money and John there as protection from anyone who might try to steal from him, or seemingly to keep Sherlock company.

Both of them were old hands at it. it wasn't as safe as the theatre had been, but it was in the open and safe enough, and Sherlock had always preferred to hide in plain sight. No one paid attention to a busker, even one of uncommon skill, not for long. Sherlock's face was a blur in people's minds; all they ever remembered was his playing, and John had always counted on his ordinariness to shield him from view.

They were still careful, and John kept his eyes sharp, constantly scanning the area.

Afghanistan had taught him many more things than just how to kill, and he'd learned those lessons well. _With Sherlock, you see the battlefield_ , Mycroft had told him, the first time they had met, and John suspected that those were the truest words ever to pass Mycroft's lips.

"What did you notice when you got back to the flat?" Sherlock finally said. They were close enough, and John knew whatever he might say was bound to be innocuous, given Sherlock risking asking when they were still a good ten minute's walk from the park.

"You mean besides the stench of cigarette smoke?" John said flatly, giving Sherlock a heavy look.

The corner of Sherlock's lips twitched upwards, just enough that John knew whoever it was that had been smoking in the flat, it hadn't been Sherlock. But John had very little doubt Sherlock had done his able-bodied best to inhale as much of the secondhand smoke as possible.

"Trust the good doctor to notice that," Sherlock drawled, lips still twitching against a smile, and John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, ta, it was pretty obvious."

"Anything else?"

"Besides you buzzing off a contact nicotine high?"

" _Focus_ , John."

John grinned. "We all have our specialties. People are my focus, remember?"

Sherlock gave him a faint smile for that. "Touché."

"But, yeah, that's all I got. I was putting away groceries, and then you hustled me out the door before I even got in the sitting room," John said pointedly, and it was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes melodramatically. "Hey, now. I _did_ pick up that it wasn't you who'd been smoking up the flat."

Sherlock looked vaguely pleased. "Yes, there may be hope for you yet. How _did_ you work that one out?"

John gave him a grin. "If you think for even a second I'm letting slip what your tells are, you're barking and I'm revoking your 'genius' status."

John was pretty sure that thwack he got just across the back of his thighs then from Sherlock's violin case was not the accident Sherlock was trying to pass it off as with his "Careful where you're walking."

 _Sherlock Holmes, the world's most brilliant overgrown toddler_ , he thought.

By then, they had gotten to the park, and Sherlock beelined for a spot he routinely used when he was playing his violin for money.

Patterns: they could be both the most dangerous thing or what saved them, and they both knew it.

John stood at parade rest, scanning around them as Sherlock set up. It was the middle of the afternoon, too late for lunch and too early for people to be leaving the obelisks and improbabilities of the towering skyscrapers they worked in. It was a wretched time for busking, with the park full of only older people and mothers or fathers with their toddling children, but perfect for talking and not being overheard.

As Sherlock set up, he began to talk. "A man named Grant Monroe stopped by while you were out. He was the one smoking, so all blame for the smoke and contact nicotine high can be laid at his feet."

"Cheers, I'll be sure to give him a what-for," John said, nodding once and raising his eyebrows in amusement, and Sherlock chuckled briefly.

"He had quite the interesting story," Sherlock said as he tightened his bow. "He married an American woman about a year ago. And everything had apparently been appallingly normal and boring. Until two months ago."

"What happened then?" John asked. Sherlock didn't answer at first, instead pulling out his rosin and rosining his bow liberally. When Sherlock did next speak, sounding as he returned the rosin to a compartment for it in the violin case, John felt himself going more alert, paying more attention both to Sherlock and everything around him, feeling both the weight of his tools and his service gun against the small of his back. 

"His wife asked for two thousand pounds."

John choked at that amount of money. "Two thousand--!" he began, then gave up as Sherlock raised his violin and began to tune it.

He knew there was more there, there had to be. That alone, not even with the mystery of someone from Lord Dagon's protectorate coming to Albion, wouldn't be enough.

The rest of the story came out slowly, between songs and occasional people dribbling over alone or in twos or threes to listen to Sherlock play before they went on with their day. They still had the sunlight, casting a faint, reddish pall over everything, so it was fine for Sherlock to be cautious, to take his time.

John had been a soldier; if he knew anything, he knew how to _wait_. Especially in enemy territory, and London would always be both home and battlefield, even if he hadn't known that until he'd returned, broken and scarred, and his eyes finally open.

He saw the battlefield with Sherlock; but then, he'd seen it before, the first time a Royal had crossed his path and his leg had burned flames of ice. The only difference was, now he knew his orders; now he knew he was part of the fight.

"He gave his wife the money, of course, because he trusted and loved her," Sherlock had said after he finished tuning.

"Then, about two weeks later, the nightmares began," he said, after playing his first song. "And his wife began creeping from the house at night. Who goes out at night, John? We all know how risky that is. And yet she did, and tried to keep it a secret, waiting until her husband was asleep. Only his nightmares meant he slept fitfully enough to hear her leave."

When the small child and her grandmother, who had stopped to listen during Sherlock's second song left, he continued. "And his wife told him that someone had moved into the cottage next to their property, but they were quite adamant on not being visited, well, it only stood to reason Grant would become a bit...curious."

"'Course," John said, then glared at a kid sneaking over who looked like he was about to try to steal the five pound note someone had left in Sherlock's open violin case. The kid buggered off, and Sherlock went back to playing.

"Then came the interesting part," Sherlock said with a wolfish grin after two more songs. "Grant went to the cottage. And he saw a face in the window, John. A 'livid chalky white' face that was 'rigid and shockingly unnatural' and he was 'chilled to the bone' at seeing it."

"And when he confront his wife about all this, the nightmares, the strange face, her sneaking around...she started crying and said there'd be nothing but misery if the went back to that cottage," Sherlock said, lowering his violin from his shoulder. 

Everything about him changed; it was suddenly obvious the "busking" was over, and the Work had come.

Sherlock's eyes were blazing, and energy was almost palpably cracking around him as he quivered in excitement, packing up his violin. "A mysterious request for several thousand pounds? An inhuman face peering from a cottage on the edge of their property? Changes in sleeping habits and a creeping wife with a terrified expression, and saying 'nothing but misery' can come from her husband trying to discover what she's hiding in a cottage? Nightmares that began just before said unnaturally stiff face appeared? Now, what _could_ these things be?" he said, with an almost _maniacally_ childlike grin. "We have a train to catch. The Royals are about and the game is on!"


	3. Dal Segno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has wondered, and now he asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has been edited, to take revelations in season 4 ep 3 into account.

_"Why, Sherlock?" John finally asks. This is their third job together now, and yet Sherlock has said nothing about his motives for treason, even though he had long deduced John's. "Why are you doing this? Why do you do this?" he asks, gesturing around at the entirety of the flat, surfaces covered with items that would get them in the worst kind of trouble were anyone to see it.  "And don't say 'the Work'.  That's not what got you started, not with this. Even I can see outsmarting everyone and risking your neck isn't what got you started down_ this _path. There are a lot of ways to be smarter than everyone and chase death to prove it. So why?"_

_It's never made sense to John. Sherlock has never given any indication he cares at all about other people's suffering or human rights or even basic politics, all the things that normally drive members of the Resistance. And there are so many puzzles in the world (even if it's dangerous to be seen as smart enough to solve them sometimes, and really, John thinks the danger alone would be enough to lure Sherlock over to even the side of the Royals - match wits against them that way and see how long until someone wins, a game he wonders if Mycroft plays); he can't see how this is the only one that Sherlock deigns to solve._

_There's fire, yes, but nothing noble in how Sherlock sees this, and that's normally what drives the cerebral revolutionaries. It doesn't make any sense._

_Sherlock is quiet for a long moment before he finally speaks, his words short and clipped.  "I had a sister."_

_"Wait,_ had? _What do you mean, _had_ \--" John begins, and Sherlock cuts him off._

 __"Eurus. _Her name was Eurus," he says, then snaps his mouth shut tightly closed before he continues. "She was a year older than I, and smarter than Mycroft and I both, and one day when caught a Royal's eye."_

_A bitter look crosses Sherlock's face, just for a moment, just long enough to mark his bored tone a lie. "People always said Eurus was too clever by half and too twisted by a third. And seeing as what happened to her, I would say they were perhaps right on both counts. Both Mycroft and I learnt a very valuable lesson from that...event."_

_"I'm sorry," John begins, and Sherlock again cuts him off._

_"Please. It is not_ sentiment _," Sherlock says, snarling the word as if disgusted, "that motivates me. What became of my sister only set me on the path of the Work. That kind of sentiment does_ not _define it."_

_"Unlike me," John says flatly, and Sherlock startles._

_"That's not--" Sherlock starts, tripping over his words in the way he does on the rare occasions when he finds himself wrong-footed. "You're--"_

_"Driven by sentiment," John finishes, but there is no reproach in his voice.  "By_ revenge _. Because that's what I need for what_ I _do," he says, and he lays his hand over the soft leather rolled case that contains his tools. What John does...it is not like Sherlock, laying his elegant traps with his elegant mind for Royals to walk into. John's Work is_ messy _; it is bloody, and it is a catharsis every time, a cleansing and purging of the taint left within him. And without that... "And not what you need for what_ you _do."_

_Sherlock nods, once, uncertainly, before he looks away. "And that is the long and the short of it, really."_

_They fall silent, and Sherlock goes back to his computer while John flips on the telly._


End file.
